


The Eye Abides

by speakpirate



Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: Emison - Freeform, F/F, F/M, Gen, McHastings - Freeform, Mystery-Centric, Post-7a
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-14 03:47:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11774841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakpirate/pseuds/speakpirate
Summary: “How bad is it?” Hanna asks.Emily balls up her jacket and presses it against the wound.Alison is right next to her, she can sees the fear in her eyes as it soaks through. Quickly. Too quickly.“I got shot, Han.” Spencer’s voice is weak. A little spacey. “It’s not...a kitten scratch.”“Stay with me,” Alison shouts. “Spencer! Stay with me!”The story picks up where the 7a finale left off and imagines an alternative version of 7b.This fic is a love letter to the best parts of PLL - the queerness, the sleuthing, the unbreakable bond between the Liars. All the wacky situations mixed with the dead seriousness of growing up with rape culture always lurking outside the window. This is the final half season as it could have been. One last time.-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------





	1. Stay With Me

“What happened?” Marco Furey is demanding. His face is pale, his mouth a tight line. If the sirens weren’t so loud, Emily is sure she could hear him grinding his molars.

Emily blinks. There are so many cops. As many as the night everyone thought Alison’s body was found. Marco’s face turns blue in the light of the police flashers. She shouldn’t have gone back for her phone. She can see Marco’s mouth moving, but his voice is drowned out by more sirens shrieking towards them. Spencer is on a stretcher, the paramedics shouting and rushing to try and stabilize her, to stop the bleeding. Her shirt was white. Now it’s red. Like Marco’s cheek as another ambulance pulls up.

“Noel Kahn,” Aria is saying. “He attacked us.”

They’re giving Spencer oxygen. Emily tries not to think about the bullet collapsing her lung. It could have been through the shoulder. 

_“How bad is it?” Hanna asked._

_Emily balled up her jacket and pressed it against the wound._

_“How bad is it?” Hanna asked again, the panic almost palpable in her voice._

_Alison was right next to her, she saw the fear in her eyes as it soaked through. Quickly. Too quickly._

_“I got shot, Han.” Spencer’s voice was weak. A little spacey. “It’s not...a kitten scratch.”_

“Stay with me,” Alison is shouting now . “Spencer! Stay with me!”

She’s clutching Spencer’s hand. Jumping into the back of the ambulance as they wheel her in.

“Are you family?” a bearded medic asks.

“Yes!” Alison says. 

They slam the doors shut and the ambulance speeds of into the night.

A light rain starts to fall.

“Jenna Marshall came after us with a gun. Noel had an axe. They were trying to kill us,” Hanna says. “And then Mary Drake was there, and Spencer was bleeding all over the floor.”

“Clear!” Barry Maple announces, coming out the front door. “All clear, sir.”

Marco’s jaw twitches. 

“There’s nobody in there,” Lorenzo Calderon reports. “A lot of blood, but no sign of the suspects.”

“Nobody?” Hanna asks. “Or no body?”

Lorenzo eyes her suspiciously before continuing his report. “We got the power back on. Breyer tripped over a bowling ball. Stevens discharged his taser at a figure that later turned out to be a freaky suit of armor.”

“So three people - including a blind woman with a gun - managed to escape a locked building before we arrived on the scene?”

“Hard to believe,” Lorenzo says, throwing a skeptical look at the three of them.

Marco frowns. “What were you all doing here?”

“We were driving, and we spotted Noel,” Hanna answers.

“And you didn’t call the police?”

“We couldn’t get service,” Aria lies.

“And Jenna Marshall happened to show up with a firearm?”

“Yes,” Emily nods. “Can we go now? We need to get to Spencer.”

“Hang on,” Hanna says. “I left my tampon case in there. Can I run in and get it?”

Marco nods curtly, and Barry Maple escorts Hanna inside.

They’re back out two minutes later. 

“Thanks,” Hanna’s tells him, shooting a significant look at the rest of them. “I’d _lose my head_ if it wasn’t attached.”

“Well?” Emily hisses, as Hanna drags them back towards the car.

“No body,” Hanna announces grimly. “Noel’s gone.”


	2. General Hospital

“You’re going to be fine!” Alison says, shouting a little to make herself heard over wail of the ambulance siren. “You’re a -” she cuts herself off. Because Spencer maybe isn’t a Hastings. “A fighter.”

Spencer’s eyelids flutter weakly. 

“Keep her talking,” the paramedic says, in an undertone. He turns to the driver. “We’re gonna need at least two liters of O-Neg on arrival. And get the trauma team on standby!”

“Mom,” Spencer says, her eyes fuzzy and unfocused.

“We’ll figure it out!” Alison tells her, gripping her hand tightly. 

“M’lissa,” Spencer mutters, her eyelids drooping.

“You want Melissa?” Alison asks. “How much blood have you lost?”

“Nooo. Shhh,” Spencer continues. She’s loopy. On the verge of losing consciousness.

“SPENCER!”

Spencer opens her eyes again.

The hospital is in sight. There are white coats swarming around in the ambulance bay.

“It’s gonna take more than a bullet to stop you,” Alison says, swallowing hard.

Spencer is so pale. So weak. 

_“Liar.”_

Alison makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

She brushes Spencer’s bangs off her forehead.

“You don’t get to die, okay? I’m not losing you, too.”

The ambulance screeches to a halt and the hospital staff are rushing Spencer inside.

Alison jogs beside the gurney, barely noticing the other patient being brought in until Spencer tries to stretch out her wounded arm towards him.

He’s unconscious. There’s blood all over his face, matted in his hair. One arm is bent at an unnatural angle.

_Toby._

A doctor is taking Spencer’s vitals and frowning. “Prep the OR,” he declares. “I need those two liters of O-Neg _now_.”

“Sorry! It went to the first patient from the car wreck,” a nurse calls out. “We’re running low! Three traumas at once!”

They’re approaching the swinging double doors, the No Visitors Allowed point.

A nurse puts an arm on Alison’s shoulder. “Let the doctors do their job, honey.”

“No,” Alison protests. “I need to stay with her.”

The doctor makes an impatient noise in his throat. “You want to help your friend? We need blood. She’s never going to make it through surgery without a transfusion.”

“Okay,” Alison replies, eagerly. “I can do that.”

The nurse leads her to an empty exam room and gives her some preliminary paperwork to fill out.

Her phone pings with a text from Emily. 

>On our way. 

She keeps filling out the forms, but her hand is shaking at the realization of how much she wants - _needs_ \- Emily to be here, to make it better. No matter how many times the world turns upside down, Emily Fields never moves. Not one single inch.

Alison hurries through the questions and slides it across the table the moment she’s done.

The nurse glances over it while she’s taking Alison’s blood pressure. She uses her stethoscope to listen for a heart murmur, then starts swabbing her upper arm with rubbing alcohol.

“Alright,” she says, in a strange tone of voice. “You just tell me if you feel light headed.”

She hooks Alison up to the donation bag, and hands her a rubber ball to squeeze.

“Code Blue!” a voice blares over the loudspeakers, as confusion erupts in the room next door.

“We need a crash cart in here!”

The nurse rushes out of the room, just Hanna storms through the doors of the ER, Emily and Aria close behind.

Alison waves them over. She can hear them arguing as they get closer.

“Like, both pieces?” Aria’s asking, in a squicked out tone of voice.

“I told you,” Hanna says, sounding exasperated. “Head, shoulders, knees and toes!”

“His head didn’t grow legs and walk away,” Emily counters.

“I dunno what to tell you! Maybe he’s the headless horseman and he rode off!”

Emily is the first one into the room. She puts a protective arm around Alison’s shoulders. Her body feels warm. Solid. A little shiver of electricity runs down Alison’s spine.

“How’s Spencer?” Emily asks, her brow furrowing with worry.

“She needs surgery. And blood,” Alison answers. “But she didn’t lose consciousness.”

“That’s good,” Emily says, sounding relieved. “That’s really good.”

“Should we call her mom?” Aria asks. “I mean, Mrs. Hastings?”

“They’re on a cruise,” Alison says, as Emily rubs small circles on her back. “She was asking for Melissa in the ambulance.”

“Melissa?” Hanna asks, incredulously. “Melissa-Melissa?”

“No,” Alison snarks. “Melissa McCarthy. She wants her to do Sean Spicer again.”

“I’ll call her,” Aria volunteers. “I need to try to get through to Ezra, anyway.” 

\------------------------------------------------

The air outside the hospital is chilly. It’s not raining anymore, but there’s a bite of winter in the wind. Aria pulls her jacket tightly around her as she dials.

She leaves a message for Melissa, then tries Ezra. Again.

She’s called him at least five times today. He hasn’t picked up.

The sixth time is, apparently, the charm.

“Aria?” His voice sounds like he’s in a tunnel.

“Ezra!”

“I tried to call you,” he says. “I couldn’t get through.”

There's static on the line. His next words are cut off.

"What?" Aria asks. "Ezra, you're breaking up!"

"We're not breaking up," he says. "But I need to stay here. At least for a few weeks. Nicole needs me right now. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Ezra -”

“Sorry,” he says again. “I have to go.”

“I love you,” Aria tells him.

He’s already hung up.

She sighs, staring at his picture on the lighted display of her phone screen.

That’s when she hears the low voice coming from the other side of the bushes.

Jenna’s voice. 

“She could have died! For real! This isn’t what I agreed to!”


	3. No One is Safe

“She could have died! For real! This isn’t what I agreed to!”

Aria looks around, hoping to catch sight of a cop or a security guard. 

No luck.

She crouches down and creeps closer. 

Jenna looks rumpled and strung out. There’s a streak of blood over her left eye.

_Spencer’s blood._

“This isn’t a game,” Jenna insists, as she hangs up and stuffs the phone into her pocket.

“No, it’s not,” Aria agrees, as she grabs Jenna’s wrist. Jenna struggles as Aria twists her arm behind her back and pins her against the brick wall of the hospital.

“Aria!” Jenna exclaims. “How is she? How’s Spencer?”

“How is she?” Aria asks incredulously. “She’s fighting for her life! Because _you_ shot her!”

“Please,” Jenna says, as tears start to run down her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to! I didn’t know what was going to happen!”

“What did you think you were doing? Playing Blind Girl’s Bluff with a handgun?”

Jenna strikes out so suddenly, Aria isn’t even sure how it happens. She sweeps Aria’s legs out from under her. She tries to struggle to her feet, but Jenna’s already behind her, pressing her cane hard against Aria’s throat.

“Tell me the truth,” Jenna hisses. “Are you in on it?”

Aria claws at the hard plastic and Jenna loosens her grip enough for her to answer.

Aria takes a deep breath, and lets out a blood curdling scream.

Someone crashes through the bushes, bowling both of them over.

Caleb grabs Jenna’s shoulder, hauling her to her feet.

“Get your hands off me,” Jenna says, sounding genuinely scared. “You’re hurting me.”

He tightens his grip. “This is Caleb. If you couldn’t tell.”

Jenna wrenches her arm away and elbows him in the face. 

Caleb lunges at her, and Jenna smacks him across the face with her cane.

“No one is safe,” she tells Aria.

Then she runs off and vanishes into the night.

\--------------------------------------------

Alison is holding Emily’s hand over a plate of sugar cookies in the hospital cafeteria. 

There’s no word yet on Spencer. She’s still in surgery.

Aria’s giving a statement to Barry Maple, describing her run in with Jenna.

Hanna and Caleb are silhouetted against the wall of vending machines. She has her arms folded across her chest, her head tilted up at a challenging angle. Caleb looks puffed up with indignation.

Alison brushes a fingertip against the crease between Emily’s eyebrows. “You’ll get wrinkles.”

Emily breaks off a piece of the cookie and crumbles it idly between her fingers.

“Do you think Mary Drake was telling the truth?”

“Why would she lie?” Alison asks.

“That makes you and Spencer cousins.”

Alison nods. “I’m sorry we all found out that way. But considering the rest of my family, Spence is a pretty big upgrade.”

Emily runs her fingers lightly over the back of Alison’s hand. Alison feels the contact through her entire body. 

“I know this isn’t a good time to talk about it,” Emily says.

Leave it to Em. Forget swimming. The girl could win a gold medal in processing sessions.

“I’m sorry,” Alison says.

“I’m not.”

_“Oh.”_

“The thing is, we’re not fourteen anymore. And what happened to Spencer tonight - it could have been any of us. I know you’ve been through a lot. I know you’re still reeling from the pregnancy test. I don’t want to push you. But I want you to know I’m here. I’m in.”

“Do you mean that? You’re not just saying that because you feel sorry for me?”

“I mean it.”

“Is this because of the baby?”

“We’ll do whatever you want,” Emily says, but Alison thinks she sees something in her eyes. Visions of the two of them baby proofing the house, painting the nursery. Alison breast feeding in a fancy rocking chair like some kind of reformed bad girl Madonna.

Alison’s phone pings before she can find the words, much less get them in the right order, for an answer.

“They need me upstairs.”

\----------------------------------------------

The message didn’t seem urgent. She’s expecting insurance forms. Having to list out Spencer’s allergies. Something bland and bureaucratic. 

Instead, she finds Dr. Sullivan. With her head tilt of empathy firmly in place.

She leads Alison to an empty room and sits down across from her.

Alison’s heart starts to pound. “Spencer isn’t-”

“No,” Dr. Sullivan assures her. “She’s almost out of surgery. But I wanted to check in with you.”

Alison doesn’t say anything. She keeps her face blank and polite.

“You’ve been through a great deal of loss lately,” Dr. Sullivan observes. “Charlotte. Your husband.”

Alison tenses at the sound of Charlotte’s name. “I don’t consider my husband a loss.”

“Grief takes many forms. You might not mourn his absence. But that doesn’t mean learning he wasn’t the man you thought he was wouldn’t cause distress.”

Alison looks at her sharply. “What is this?”

“Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

_“No.”_

“It’s understandable, Alison. After everything that you’ve been through, that you’d want something to hold onto.”

Alison feels herself on the brink of losing patience. “I appreciate your concern. I do. But I’m not interested in a therapy session.”

“The hospital asked me to speak with you. Honestly, they were contemplating a psychiatric hold.”

Alison’s limbs go cold. “Why?”

“It’s protocol,” Dr. Sullivan answers, pulling out the blood donation form. “For pseudocyesis.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“They’re concerned. As am I.”

Dr. Sullivan hesitates before she continues.

“Your mental distress is real, Alison. But your pregnancy isn’t.”


	4. Woke

Spencer wakes up slowly. Like her brain is disconnected from her body. Floating in a lake. Surfacing in the midst of a thick fog.

She blinks in the darkness. There are machines whirring nearby. An IV attached to her arm. She’s wearing a crappy hospital gown. The pillow behind her head is too flat. 

Her shoulder really hurts.

It comes back to her in flashes. 

Noel’s head rolling down the stairs.

Crawling over the floorboards, a slick trail of blood in her wake. 

Mary Drake crooning over her.

_I’m her mother._

The naked panic on Alison’s face in the ambulance.

_Toby._

“Spencer?”

Hanna is curled up in a chair next to the bed. She sits up and leans forward.

“Hey,” Spencer says, her voice scratchy and hoarse. 

“Are you okay?” Hanna asks. “Do you need anything?”

“Well,” Spencer deadpans. “I feel like I’ve been shot.”

“God,” Hanna exclaims. “You scared the shit out of us. Don’t do that again!”

“Will you do something for me?” Spencer asks, trying to sit up.

Hanna squeezes her hand. 

“Anything.”

\------------------------------------------------

The hospital security camera captures the door of an elevator opening.

An orderly pushes a gurney with a black body bag on it down the hall. He consults a chart on his clipboard. A map with a red circle around Room 321.

He wheels the stretcher into the room and leaves it there.

A gloved hand slowly unzips the bag from inside, and a hooded figure emerges.

They examine the chart at the foot of the empty bed.

_Spencer Hastings._

\-----------------------------------------------

Hanna pushes Spencer’s wheelchair down the deserted hallway. This part of the building is quiet and calm. Nothing moving but the two of them.

A woman at the nurse’s station is reading a book. They slide by without a sound, rounding the corner to the room where Toby is lying motionless in his own hospital bed.

“Five minutes,” Hanna whispers, slipping out of the room.

Spencer wheels herself awkwardly over to the edge of the bed, watching the rise and fall of Toby’s chest as he breathes.

His ribs are taped up and his head is bandaged. She runs a fingertip along his jawline. He doesn’t stir.

On the nightstand next to his bed is a small pile of his belongings. A gold ring glints out of the pocket of his jeans.

She stares at it in silence, then reaches over and picks it up. She clutches it in her hand, watching Toby’s heart rate draw mountains and valleys on the monitor.

She sighs and puts the ring back gently. Her fingers brush something hard and plastic.

Instinctively she pulls it out.

It’s a flash drive.

 _The_ flash drive

The one with the Doll House footage.

The one they just traded back to Noel.


	5. Dress for Success

The phone rings while Hanna’s in the shower. The steam makes the whole shower smell like Caleb’s bar of Irish Spring, which isn’t a great combination with her sugar rum body scrub. She wrinkles her nose as she contemplates all the guy stuff on the ledge. It’s like Caleb’s just decided that they’re living together by default.

She rinses the conditioning treatment out of her hair and turns off the taps. She towels off and sees that she has a new voicemail.

_Congratulations, Ms. Marin! We’re pleased to announce you as one of the finalists in the fifth annual Liberty Belles Hot Young Designer Competition! The judges were so impressed with your Spring Awakening design, we’re all looking forward to seeing your full collection next weekend!”_

She sits down on the edge of the tub feeling sick. 

She never entered the contest.

It has to be ‘A’. 

\---------------------------------

“Call them,” Caleb says. “Withdraw.”

“It’s like closing the curtains,” Hanna explains, irritably. “They’ll just find another way to watch. If I pull out, they’ll find some other way to mess with me.”

“So don’t play the game! It’s getting dangerous, Hanna.”

“Seriously? Is it getting dangerous?! Spencer is still in the hospital! I was kidnapped! It’s been _dangerous_ since we got back to town! I’ve been in danger since I was fifteen years old!”

“Okay,” he says, putting up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I get it. You’re not mad at me. You’re frustrated with the situation.”

Actually, she’s feeling pretty damn mad at him. But there’s a knock on the door before she can let him know. If he doesn’t already.

They’ve been back together for less than a week, and it’s already tricky. It sometimes seem like Caleb’s slipped right back into their old groove. The problem with that is their old groove included a lot of arguments.

She opens the door to find Lucas standing there with flowers.

“Congratulations,” he tells her. “I just heard about the contest.”

“How?” Hanna asks, bluntly. “I mean, I just heard about it a few minutes ago.”

“One of my board members is married to a Liberty Belle,” Lucas explains. “And it sounds like you’re the favorite.”

“I am?” Hanna asks. 

“Yeah,” Lucas says, grinning.

“Shouldn’t you be smiling?” he says, uncertainly. “This is good news, right?”

“Right,” Hanna sighs. 

“She’s not sure she’s going to go through with it,” Caleb interjects.

“What? Of course you’re gonna do it!” Lucas insists. “This is a great opportunity, Hanna.”

“There’s just a lot going on right now,” Hanna hedges.

“That’s what starting a business is like,” Lucas enthuses. “We can use this to entice more investors! I can set up a meeting!”

Hanna considers his offer as she takes the flowers and looks around for a vase. Or a glass. Emily’s been gone long enough that they all seem to be dirty in the sink. Hanna pulls out a saucepan and fills it with water, then plunks the flowers in and leans the whole thing against the wall. 

Caleb rolls his eyes. 

Lucas couldn’t be happier. “That’s what I’m talking about! Look at you! You’re Hanna. You can make anything work if you put your mind to it.”

“I guess,” Hanna says, noncommittally. “You really think people will want to invest in me?”

“I know they will,” Lucas assures her. “As much as I do.”

“Alright,” Hanna says, trying to force her face into a smile. “It can’t hurt to talk to them, right?”

“Exactly,” Lucas beams. “I’ll make some calls! Congratulations again.” 

He leans in and kisses her cheek, then blushes and makes a hasty exit.

“I should get going, too,” Hanna announces. “I want to get over to the hospital.”

“Are you coming back tonight?” Caleb asks. 

“Probably,” Hanna tells him. “I’ll text you.” She’s been staying at the hospital for longer and longer stretches of time. Hanging out in Spencer’s room, reading magazines, playing gin rummy with Emily and Aria. Spencer’s being weirdly needy, wanting to have one of them there pretty much around the clock. Not that she says much. She mostly stares into space, all grim faced and silent. But you get to act pretty much however you want to when they just dug a bullet out of your shoulder. Those are the rules.

She grabs her leather jacket from the closet and makes an effort not to slam the door on her way out.

Halfway down the stairs, she bumps into Mona, on her way up.

“Congratulations!” Mona says, brightly. “Can I take the soon-to-be-hottest new designer on the East Coast out for some dinner?”

“I’m not hungry,” Hanna says, even as her stomach rumbles a little.

“Liar,” Mona chides her. “Let’s go crazy. Cookie dough milkshakes! Pasta with tons of carbs!”

Hanna huffs a little, even as she lets Mona take her arm and lead her to a car that she has waiting outside.

“Rive Gauche,” Mona tells the driver, as she raises the partition. She turns to Hanna and her smile fades a bit. “What’s up, girly girl? Why am I the one being ecstatic on your behalf?”

“It’s not exactly great news,” Hanna admits. “I didn’t enter the contest. Which means it’s probably an elaborate scheme for ‘A’ to torture me. They’ll like, make me walk the runway naked or set my dresses on fire or something.”

“Would you walk the runway naked?”

“Not the point,” Hanna tells her.

Mona raises her eyebrows in polite disagreement as she rummages through the minibar. She finds a bubbly water and hands it to Hanna. 

“Alright,” Mona declares. “Confession time. _I_ entered you in that contest. Because you’re going to win and get tons of recognition that you totally deserve. This is the first step on your path to complete fashion world domination!”

Hanna gapes at her. “How did you get my designs?”

“Don’t be mad,” Mona implores, with a wide eyed look. “A lax security system is as much of an invitation as an open door.”

“I can’t believe you,” Hanna says, crossing her arms.

“I’ll take that as a thanks,” Mona tells her. “Besides, I’m not done yet. I won't rest until we have the Jenners in a cat fight over who gets to wear Spring Awakening at the Met.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“Because you deserve good things. And I’m going to make sure you get them.”


	6. Talk to the Hand

“Do you recognize this?” Marco is asking, tipping a gold ring out of a manila envelope. It drops to the table with a hollow metallic clang. 

Alison makes no move to pick it up.

“I assume it’s his. Archer’s.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because I doubt you’re here to audition for Pawn Stars.”

Emily puts a gentle hand on her elbow.

Alison shakes it off.

“Where did you find it?”

“Funny you should ask,” Marco says, leaning forward. “Someone sent it to us.” 

He pulls out a glossy photograph and sets it in front of them. It’s the ring. Attached to the rotting flesh of a severed hand.

Emily recoils. Alison doesn’t flinch.

“Any sign of the rest of him?” she asks calmly.

“No,” Marco admits. “But it’s curious. That someone would go through the trouble of killing him, only to send us evidence that he’s dead. Do you have any idea who might do something like that?”

“I’m sorry,” Alison says. “I don’t.”

“Did you follow your sister to the church that night?”

“No.”

“Did you suspect she was having an affair with your husband?”

“No. If I knew they were involved, I would never have married him.”

“Did your husband kill Charlotte DiLaurentis?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he ever mention any friends or relatives he might go to if he needed help?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Was your husband a drinker? Did he spend a lot of time in bars?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he spend time at the Radley Bar?”

“Detective, I didn’t even know my husband’s real name. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Marco looks irritated. Emily cuts in, instinctively placing her hand over Alison’s.

“This has all been a lot to take in.”

“Of course.”

He’s looking at their hands, raising an eyebrow. 

“I don’t mean to intrude,” he says, running a hand through his hair. He’s charming. No wonder Spencer seems to like him. “But there seems to be a pattern here.”

“What do you mean?” Emily asks.

“Sara Harvey was your ex-girlfriend,” he tells her. It’s not a question. He nods at Alison. “And Archer Dunhill was your husband. In the space of a month, they’re both dead and the two of you seem to be….growing closer.”

“We’re done here,” Alison announces, standing up. “Please leave.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t believe in that version of events,” Marco offers, as he gets up as well. “But if you don’t start being honest with me about whatever it is that’s really going on here, I’m not going to be able to help you.” 

Alison waits until his car is pulling out of the driveway before she closes the door and slumps down behind it. She tries to push down on her panic.

_How much do they know?_

“Are you okay?” Emily asks, sitting down beside her. 

She tentatively puts an arm around Alison’s shoulders.

Alison closes her eyes and lets her. She buries her head for a moment in Emily’s neck.

Then she pulls away.

“I wish you would talk to me,” Emily says.

“There’s nothing to say. The police are circling. AD is still out there. Spencer is my cousin. And someone at Welby injected me with enough hGC to trick me into thinking I was pregnant. None of that is going to change if we sit around talking about it all the time.”

“It’s okay to have feelings about it, though.”

“Oh, I have feelings,” Alison retorts. “I feel exhausted from being so angry all the time.”

“Ali-”

“Don’t,” Alison says, standing up. “You can stop trying, Em.”

“I’m not going to let you push me away.”

Alison shrugs. “Your call.”

She heads upstairs.

The sound of her bedroom door closing echos through the house.


	7. Into the Woods

Emily picks her up from the hospital. She brings some clothes for Spencer to change into. Yoga pants. An old Sharks hoodie. Everything Spencer was wearing that night is ruined. Bloodstains so heavy they’ll never come out.

“Isn’t it kind of soon for them to release you?”

“Not really.” 

Emily gives her a suspicious look. Damn those pre-med classes at Pepperdine. 

“Did you sign yourself out?”

Spencer holds back a sigh. She couldn’t stay there a minute longer. She’s going stir crazy. Eight days. Eight days of re-hiding the flash drive every three hours, wondering how Toby got it, whether someone’s going to notice it’s missing and come after her. Replaying every moment of her relationship with Toby in her mind, trying to reassure herself it was real. 

Toby himself is still in a coma. Unavailable for questioning. 

“How’s Ali?” Spencer asks, hoping it’ll be enough to change the subject. 

A cloud seems to pass over Emily’s face. 

“Fine.” A short word. But the tightness in Emily’s voice speaks volumes.

The rest of the drive passes in silence. Emily seems to be lost in her own thoughts until the moment they pull up to the barn. 

“Do you want me to come in? Help you get set up?”

“No, thanks. I think I’m just gonna crash.”

“Okay,” she says, uncertainly. “We can come over and check on you later. Maybe bring you some dinner?”

“Honest, Em. I’m not up for much. I just want to watch Rachel Maddow and sleep in my own bed.”

“I get it,” Emily says. “Take it easy. Text me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

She unlocks the door to the barn and heads inside, grateful for the familiarity of being in her own space. She inhales the scent of coffee and pinewood as she sits down carefully on the couch. 

She reaches for her computer with her good hand and fumbles with the flash drive.

She hasn’t told the others, yet. She needs to do this alone. To see for herself.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

Twelve hours later, she’s frozen in the exact same position. 

The first video was Noel wheeling them onto the morgue slabs. The second was Noel and Charlotte running a shock experiment. The third was Charlotte whistling as she laid out prom dresses on the beds.

Spencer can feel herself detach. She tells herself she’s just watching from a remove. A clinical distance.

Her fingers twitch towards the phone.

She refocuses on the screen and clicks on a new file.

Noel is putting on a suit with his back toward the camera. A red and white mask is on the table next to him. The prom.

He turns towards the camera. 

It’s not Noel.

_It’s not Noel._

It’s Toby.

\------------------------------------------------

She doesn’t remember getting in the car.

She’s not supposed to be driving yet.

She must have done it anyway.

She’s at the edge of town. The edge of the woods.

The woods where she found his body.

The sun is creeping up over the horizon.

_These woods are lovely, dark and deep._

The flash drive is still in her hand.

She could bury it.

Throw it in the river.

But it doesn’t matter.

He was there. 

The image is burned into her mind.

She’s running before she even realizes she’s in motion.

Her mind is going into overdrive. A switchback loop of he loves me, he loves me not.

He loves me. Evidence can be doctored.

He was on the A team. He loves me not.

He joined as a ruse. To protect me.

Then he faked his own death.

He only pretended not to love me.

He pretended the whole time.

Her lungs are burning. 

Her shoulder is throbbing.

She doesn’t stop. The physical pain is sharp and satisfying. 

Then she hears the footsteps behind her.

Catching up fast.

She’s lost track of how far she is from the car. Whether the path that she’s on loops around. 

She’s sweaty and panting, but a surge of adrenaline is coursing through her veins.

They want a chase? She’ll give them a fucking chase.

She sprints down the trail, running flat out.

Whoever’s back there is getting closer.

She can see the parking area through the trees.

There’s a stitch in her side that feels like it’s cutting her in two.

She runs harder.

Her sweatshirt feels sticky.

The path curves ahead. She’s going to beat them to the treeline.

It curves.

Charlotte is dead.

Noel is dead.

Toby’s in a coma.

Someone is chasing her.

They’re back there, maybe fifty feet away. She could be that close to answers.

She hits the edge of the woods and crouches down behind an old oak tree. She can do this. She can turn the tables. She grabs a branch from the ground and waits for her moment.

The footsteps are closer. Closer. Ten feet away. Five. Spencer whips the branch around, sweeping it directly into their path.

There’s a sharp crack of impact, a grunt of surprise. A body falls hard into the dirt. A body that is not dressed in a telltale black hoodie, but a black tank top and running shorts.

“McCullers?” Spencer says, horrified. 

“Spencer?” Paige replies, thickly, as she tries to staunch the blood trickling from her nose.

Spencer leans hard against the tree. It feels like the trees are weaving in front of her eyes.

“Spencer?!” Paige says again. “Are you okay?”

“M’fine,” she replies. It’s not really a lie. Her shoulder is killing her, but the world is going kind of fuzzy. 

“I thought you were Emily,” Paige explains, her voice sounding slow and distant. “We used to do conditioning runs back here.” 

Her stitches feel weird. Something is oozing. That can’t be good.

She watches Paige examine her skinned elbow.

She has a leaf in her hair. Spencer reaches for it, to brush it away.

That’s when she collapses.


	8. Dressing Down

Hanna’s heels are clacking down the tile floor of the hallway as she holds the phone to her ear. 

“I didn’t even know she was _out_ of the hospital. What did she do, tie her bed sheets together and go out the window?”

“No idea,” Aria replies, walking through the waiting area. “Emily’s message wasn’t big on the details.” She waves as she spots Hanna coming towards her.

“Are those pastries I see?” Hanna asks.

“Still warm,” Aria tells her. “I’m auditioning new bakers, apparently.”

Hanna hangs up as soon as she gets close enough to take the brown paper bag from Aria. She inhales deeply.

“Hire them all,” she suggests, reaching in for a croissant. 

“Hey,” Aria protests. “Those are for Spencer.”

“So?” Hanna says with her mouth full. “Make them bake more. If you have to manage a coffee shop because Ezra’s still off in the jungle with his ex, I might as well get breakfast out of it.”

“Great. So I get to scramble to keep a small business afloat and plan a wedding on my own, but if you’re getting apple tarts out of it, at least somebody’s happy.”

“There are apple tarts in here?” Hanna asks, eagerly.

“Not the point.”

“Okay,” Hanna says. “Don’t plan the wedding. It’s too much pressure. Wait till he gets back. And hire a baker who can run The Brew without getting all heartbroken over Emily.”

“Easier said than done. I wouldn’t even have made it through the French Press breakdown without Jason.”

Hanna presses the button for the elevator. “Jason? He just decided to give up digging wells all over the world to help out with your coffee crisis?”

“We’re friends.”

“ _We’re_ friends. He’s your ex.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Whatever you say.”

They’re walking down the hall towards Spencer’s new room when both of their phones ping simultaneously.

“That’s never good,” Hanna mutters.

A picture of Toby pops up on their screens.

_> Visit an old friend. Or the cops will get a head. -A_

“I’m not loving this whole body parts not attached to a body trend,” Aria observes.

“Me neither,” Hanna agrees. “Come on. His room is this way.”

Toby looks just like he did the last time Hanna saw him. Bandaged. Unconscious. Drooling a little on his pillow.

“What now?” Aria asks.

Jenna Marshall steps out from behind the door. 

She's wearing a sheer green dress with twining leaves trailing down the arm, a collar that looks like vines climbing the side of her neck. 

“Now you listen.”

She's not looking good. She's sweaty and a little blotchy.

“We’re not listening to anything you have to say,” Aria hisses. “Unless you want company on your way to the police station to write out your confession.”

“And how did you get that dress?” Hanna demands. 

“What?” she says, when Aria gives her an impatient look. “She’s a fugitive and she’s wearing my Spring Awakening design.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jenna rasps, as she scratches furiously at her wrists.

She puts a hand to her throat and starts choking.

“What’s wrong with her?” Hanna asks.

“I don’t know!” Aria replies, pressing Toby’s call button for the nurse.

Jenna falls to the floor. Her sunglasses slip off. Her eyes are bright and she seems to be staring directly at Aria.

Every word sounds like it’s being wrenched out of her.

“I’m - sorry,” Jenna croaks. “It’s - was - all - for - show.”

The nurse arrives and takes a swift look at the situation. She loosens the throat of Jenna’s dress, to reveal angry red welts covering her neck.

“I need some help in here!” she shouts, which brings two other nurses and a doctor rushing in from neighboring rooms.

“She’s coding!” the second nurse shouts.

“My god,” the doctor exclaims. “It’s the dress! It's been poisoned!”


End file.
